Monday, June 13, 2005

167. Dick (letter mailed to Wayne Manor)

Dear Bruce,

I can't believe it's been an entire month since the last time I saw you. I think--okay, I know--that I owe you an explanation for my behavior that night, and it's taken me this long to put it into words.

No matter how great a detective you are, you are probably pretty confused by the way I acted, walking out of the house and never coming back. Believe me, I'm pretty fucking confused myself these days, and that's the real reason I left.

My biggest concern for the last month has been that I hurt your feelings. I just want you to know that under other circumstances I would have been the happiest person on the planet when you walked into my bedroom that night. I hope to god you realize that I have wanted to make love with you since the first day I saw you. (Come to think of it, that was not a very good day, either.)

But nothing I do can change the fact that I nearly destroyed your life. (Maybe I did destroy it, since I haven't noticed a single Batman sighting in the news over the last month.) I fucked up, and I fucked up badly. I'm not cut out to be the kind of man you are. You want a crimefighting partner; I want a lover. I don't think I can be both, and you and I now know beyond the shadow of a doubt that I suck as a sidekick.

Every horrible thing that has happened to both of us over the last half year--well, for me it started even earlier--has been a direct result of bad choices I made. I'm ashamed of myself, and as much as it tears me apart, I realize that you can't lead the kind of life you were meant to lead with me in the picture.

There's something else. When you kissed me--a kiss I had been waiting for for so long I thought it would never happen--all I could think about was... Dr. Tanhoger. Dr. Strange. Whatever the hell his name is. I know that's the result of all the drugs and the mental conditioning and everything else, but it's still true. I'm doing a lot better with it all now, but there's no guarantee I won't just totally flip out some day and revert to the zombie he turned me into. Even though I realize he was one sick motherfucker, I can't hide from myself the fact that everything he did to me still turns me on. I guess he's dead now, but the image of him haunts me every night. I know I need some kind of help with all this, and that makes it even worse--because the man I trusted with all my secrets (other than you) turned out to use them all against me, so there's no way I'll ever trust another shrink. And I can't talk to anyone else about any of this. A part of me would love to see you again, just to try and make sense of what happened, but I'm so afraid I'll just fuck everything up, all over again.

In case you're wondering, I've been laying low lately. The night I left I just wandered around for a while, then the next morning I went to my old apartment. I was almost positive I wouldn't be able to get in, but then I saw my key still fit the lock--and the place was in such great shape it was like I never left. Like nothing ever happened. I assume that's all Alfred's doing--paying the rent while I was out of commission, collecting the mail, cleaning--so please thank him for me.

And... thank you, Bruce.You are them most generous man I have ever met. You gave me the opportunity of a lifetime. And I blew it. I know you can never forgive me, never trust me, and you probably never want to see me again. And I know it's all my own goddam fault.

I wish everything was different. But it's not.

I love you, Bruce, even if I did a pretty shitty job of showing it. No matter what happens next, I just hope you know that.